“There he goes, squealing like a baby!” Laughter followed Armstrong’s words, and the prospect of their pleasure spurred Mendick to a final effort. Grabbing hold of the stone with already shredded fingers, he screamed away his pain as he plunged forward, feeling his trousers rip and his skin peel away as he forced himself through the last obstacle.
After the horror of being trapped, the cool dark was heaven, but he knew that he could not pause to savour it. He crawled on only to fall headfirst into gaping space. There was hardly time to yell before he landed with a clatter in an empty fireplace.
He lay still for a second, cradling his agony. He coughed, the smoke was rasping at his lungs, and forced himself to look at his legs. He felt massive relief when he saw that although his trousers were scorched and smouldering, his burns were only superficial, although no less painful for that. Swearing, he crushed away the last glowing sparks with the flat of his hands, and only then did he inspect his surroundings.
He was in a bare room with walls and floors of undressed stone, no furniture, no floor covering, but two doors and a shuttered window. He flinched when somebody spoke outside and looked hopelessly for somewhere to hide. He knew he was too exhausted to put up a fight if he was caught here and breathed a sincere prayer of gratitude as the voices died away.
“Thank you, Lord,” Mendick intoned, “for saving me from the fires of hell.” For a moment he was tempted to curl into a ball on the cold stone floor, nurse his pain and relive the terror of those flames curling around his legs.
“No,” he dismissed the thought, “keep moving or the wounds will stiffen. Get out now.” He had seen a lot worse out East, but he was shaking with reaction at the remembered horror.
Forcing himself upright, he staggered to the shutter and eased it open, but the ancient windows were barred against intruders, and he had no tools. For a second he cursed his bad luck, stared outside at the dark grounds leading to freedom, and then he closed the shutters and limped across the room. The first door opened onto a cupboard, the second gave access to one of the panelled corridors that threaded through Trafford Hall, and he moved out cautiously, very aware of the echo of his footsteps.
“Well, now we know exactly what we must do.” The voice was Scott’s; she had reassumed her educated accent, and Mendick felt the sudden batter of his heart. Backing into a recessed doorway, he tried the handle and eased himself inside as Scott and her companion walked along the corridor.
“We will use O’Connor’s march and Monaghan’s insurrection to our advantage.” Scott was speaking quite casually, as if witnessing attempted murder was a daily occurrence.
The room he found himself in was dark, with chairs arrayed around a central table and with a sideboard loaded with decanters. The footsteps stopped right outside, and Mendick looked for somewhere to hide. There were no other exits, and he refused to contemplate the fireplace.
The door opened and as Scott stepped in, Mendick rolled under the table, smothering his pain as his shin scraped along the carved wooden leg. There was the rasp and flare of a Lucifer and the soft glow of a candle.
“Let’s have a drink.”
“Feel free to use my brandy.” The second voice had the well-remembered arrogant drawl and slight lisp of Sir Robert Trafford. “You treat it like your own anyway.”
“It’s as much mine as yours, Robert,” Scott responded coolly.
Mendick kept very still, hoping nobody would look beneath the table. There was the gurgle of liquid, the click of a glass stopper and a brief exchange of a toast.
“To the white horse.”
“The white horse, damn his evil hide.” The arrogant drawl paused. “Can you smell smoke? There’s a most damnable smell of smoke in this room.”
“I can’t smell a thing,” Scott sniffed loudly. “It’s probably a backdraught from another fire. One of your flues was on fire earlier; shocking stench there.” She gave her distinctive laugh. “It was like something had crawled up the chimney and died.”
“Oh. That must be it then.” There was a sharp clink as Trafford replaced his glass on the table. “So with this revolution in France and all the troubles in Italy, the Whigs are really shaking. They will be on the alert.”
“Indeed they will,” Scott agreed. “And the Chartists will give them exactly what they expect. When O’Connor’s rabble rally on Kennington Common and Monaghan’s volunteers create mayhem up and down the country, the government will be hard pressed to keep control.”
“Everybody will be watching the Chartists,” Trafford agreed. “Finality Jack cannot afford troubles in London, so he’ll send in the army and then order them up here to finish the job. I expect there will be hundreds executed or transported to the Colonies. The Chartists will be destroyed.”
“Exactly,” Scott said, “and all that commotion will mean that our target is more vulnerable.”
“Excellent.” Trafford gave a sudden high laugh. “Bang, bang and little Drina is dead, the government collapses, people fear revolution on a European scale, and I am out of the woods.”
“And Ernie’s white horse is back in his own stable,” Scott murmured, “ruling Britannia.” There was the swish of brandy again and a second clink of crystal on crystal.
“And far more importantly, your father will be paid, and my creditors will be yapping at the heels of somebody else,” Trafford added, sniffing again. “I was right though, Rachel, there is a most abominable stink of smoke in here.”
“Perhaps we should go elsewhere, then,” Scott decided. “We can dodge these blackguard Chartists and find somewhere private.”
“By God, Rachel, I will ensure that once I am back above par, no radical will ever enter my policies again or set a single foot on my lands.” The glasses clattered onto the table, and they left leaving the door open wide.
“Merciful heaven.”
Mendick crawled from under the table and slumped onto a chair, rubbing his legs as tenderly as he could while he tried to make sense of what he had heard. It seemed that Scott and Trafford were only using the Chartists as cover for another plot, but he could not fathom why. He did not know who Drina might be or what the white horse signified, but neither really mattered to his duty. He had been sent here to find out what the Chartists were planning, and he had done just that.
Whatever double game Rachel Scott was playing, Monaghan and Armstrong were undoubtedly dedicated to the Chartist cause, and they intended to use O’Connor’s planned gathering in London to cause revolution.
Mendick looked down at himself; even with his clothes frayed and scorched and his legs screaming their agony, he carried an important message. He knew exactly how dangerous these men were, but he had one advantage: they believed that he was dead. Now all he had to do was remain undiscovered until night, slide away from Trafford Hall, catch a train to London and warn Scotland Yard. He looked up instinctively as somebody walked into the room. Monaghan stood there with a lighted candle in his hand.
“You!”
For a second they stared at each other, and then Mendick moved. Although he was exhausted and injured, he was also a trained soldier and an experienced police officer, while Monaghan was only a politician. Feinting to the left, Mendick dodged Monaghan’s clumsy lunge and landed a perfect punch straight to the politician’s throat.
Unable to yell, Monaghan folded to his knees, making strange gargling noises. For one mad moment Mendick wondered if he should kill Monaghan now and end the threat of revolution, but he pushed temptation aside. He was a police officer, not an executioner. Ignoring the pain in his legs, he pounded into the corridor. As he did so, he heard voices, recognised Armstrong’s Northumbrian accent and knew that he had delayed a fraction too long.
The corridor stretched ahead punctured by a score of doors, decorated by portraits of long-gone Traffords and as friendly as the teeth of a fighting dog. Mendick knew he could no longer hide; Monaghan would scour the building. He had to leave the house and run.
But how? The doors woul
d be guarded, and every ground floor window seemed to be barred. He swore in frustration then remembered the kitchen where he had broken in so many weeks ago. Fighting the searing agony of his burns, he hurried along the corridor, shoving aside a startled servant as he slammed open the kitchen door.
“What?” A maid stared at him, backing away as he entered. “There’s no Chartists allowed in here, sir.”
Mendick ignored her and strode to the window. As he had guessed, the broken pane had been replaced but the bars had not. He wrestled with the catch, swearing. The window held; escape was a fraction of an inch away, but he was still trapped. The frightened squeals of the maid had attracted attention, and he heard male voices and the thunder of booted feet.
Careless of the noise, he lifted a box of soap and threw it at the window, kicked away the worst of the fragmented glass and squeezed through the gap in the bars. Cold iron raked painfully across his torn hips.
“There he is!”
“Shoot the bastard!”
He dropped, rolling on gravel which scraped his legs abominably, but rose as soon as he heard the penetrating crack of a pistol. He was running even as he smelled the whiff of powder smoke, jinking from side to side with legs trembling and the pain from his burns mounting with every jarring step. There was another shot, the sensation of disturbed air as the ball passed close by his head, and then he was among the trees, cursing the morning light threatening to betray him. Had time passed so quickly?
“Get your servants out, Sir Robert.” That was Armstrong’s voice. “And loose the dogs. He’s a police spy!”
Dawn eased incandescent and pink-grey over policies sugared with the call of early birds and perfumed with new growth. Mendick moved as quickly as caution allowed, aware that the budding branches offered no protection against pistol shots, but knowing that lingering would be fatal. The peace of the country depended on the intelligence he had gleaned.
Gasping as the pain in his legs increased, he dodged among the shrubbery. Something snagged at his ankle, and he tripped. His head slammed against the bole of a tree, momentarily stunning him. He lay still until the pain in his head was under control and his mind was again clear, and then looked ahead.
“Sweet God in heaven!”
Before him the mantrap gaped open, its saw-edged teeth waiting for a victim. His ankle had scraped against the outside. London life may have its dangers, but living in the country was not idyllic.
Rising swiftly, he headed for Trafford’s boundary, watching all the time for mantraps and the equally unpleasant spring-guns. There were men swinging ugly blackthorn cudgels when he approached the wall, their voices pitched high to conceal their nervousness, and he ducked behind the rough trunk of an elm. Somebody laughed, the sound harsh in the still morning, and a dog began a series of staccato barks until its keeper kicked it quiet.
Burrowing close to the tree, he watched the servants pass before he moved forward. After surviving the flue, scaling a twelve-foot wall was nothing, but the broken glass at the top removed more of his clothing and more of his skin. Dripping blood, he staggered through the woodland, jumping at every sound. If Armstrong had alerted the Chartists, they would hunt him like a fox.
He heard voices close by and fought the temptation to hide; he struggled on, dragging his torn legs through the undergrowth, sobbing with pain and exhaustion, still coughing away the smoke in his lungs. At that moment he had no idea what to do except to continue running and head for London. He shook his head; that horse would not run. He needed a more practical plan. With no money in his pocket and his legs shaking beneath him, he would not be able to manage a quarter of the distance. He needed somewhere to rest, recuperate and regain his strength.
“The police,” he told himself. “I can go to a police station,” immediately realising he could not. The police would telegraph Scotland Yard, and the Chartists who infested the telegraph system would probably withhold the message and would certainly know his whereabouts. Indeed, Sergeant Ogden had mentioned that the Chartists had even infiltrated the police ranks. He would have to get his message to London in person, but in his present condition he could not. The thought of Jennifer Ogden’s cheerful, capable face came to him. She would help; he could find sanctuary in White Rose Lane.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Manchester: March 1848
He was nearly staggering with exhaustion when he reached the familiar lane with its uneven cobbles and squat cottages, but nothing was quite the same. The Ogdens’ garden door sagged open, and the shed, once so redolent with industry, gaped to the world. There was no rustle of pigeons nor of anything else in the house that was as silent as Ogden’s grave.
“Mrs Ogden.” He hammered on the door. “Please let me in.” He leaned against the wall with his heart thundering and agony gnawing at his legs, but there was no reply. He tried again, desperately pounding the door until it was opened. It remained at a cautious gap, secured by a stout chain.
Jennifer Ogden gripped a poker in her right hand; the nightcap perched on her head dispelling any appearance of aggression. Her eyes were clouded, but her voice was clear and very precise.
“Oh, it’s you, Mr Mendick; if it’s Nathaniel you seek, I am afraid that he is dead.”
“Mrs Ogden.” He thrust his foot forward to prevent her from closing the door. “I know about Mr Ogden—it’s you I want to see.”
Mrs Ogden stared at him, making no move to lower the poker or to unhook the chain.
“You must be mistaken, Mr Mendick. I cannot comprehend any reason that we should see each other.”
“Help me,” Mendick begged simply. He felt himself sag and straightened up.
For a second Mrs Ogden did nothing, and then she ran her gaze over him.
“Oh, I see,” she said before motioning him to move his foot and pushing shut the door. He heard the rattle of the chain and the door reopened. Mrs Ogden ushered him inside and lit a candle. She surveyed him quietly, shaking her head, and only when she seemed satisfied that he was no threat did she place the poker on top of the table.
“Look at the state of you,” she said. ”What on earth have you done to yourself?” She shook her head. “You’ve heard about Nathaniel, then?”
“I have,” Mendick admitted.
“They said he was killed by a collapsing building, but I don’t believe it.”
“I know,” Mendick said. “I don’t believe it either.”
“They killed him.” Mrs Ogden sounded surprisingly calm. “Those Chartist people he was after. And then they killed my dog.” She shook her head again and looked closely at him. “But that can wait,” she said, stepping back. “You’re hurt. You’re all bloody, and your legs are burned.”
“Yes,” Mendick agreed.
“What happened, Mr Mendick?”
“The same people who killed your husband tried to kill me,” he told her. “I have to stop them, or they’ll start a revolution.”
Mrs Ogden did not appear perturbed at the news. She brushed a loose strand of hair from her face, her eyes examining him.
“We’ll have to get you cleaned and patched up first,” she decided. “You can’t stop anything in that state. Come along now.”
She ushered him into the kitchen where a fire was laid but not lit. The table was as neat as ever, with a linen cloth covering the bare deal boards and a vase of newly cut daffodils in the centre.
“If your hurts are not treated, they’ll get poisoned,” Mrs Ogden told him, somewhat severely, “and then you might lose a leg. Do you want that?”
“No,” Mendick said.
“Then keep quiet and let me do what I have to do.”
“I am sorry about your husband,” Mendick began and then realised he did not know what more to say.
“Are you?” Mrs Ogden sounded suddenly accusing. “You hardly knew him, so why should you be sorry?”
“I lost my wife. I know what you must be going through.”
She held his gaze for what seemed a long time. “Do you?
I wonder if any man ever knows what a woman has to go through.”
Mendick looked away. She must have been hurting very badly to be so abrasive. “Maybe you’re right,” he said, “no, not maybe. You are right.”
“And how would you know if I am right or not?” Her continued bitterness surprised him. “Nathaniel was good at his job. They found him under a pile of rubble you know, thrown away like he was nothing.”
Mendick nodded, unable to bear the challenge in her eyes.
“I would like to meet the man that did it to him,” Mrs Ogden said.
“It was more than one man,” he told her, “and it is my intention to see them hanged.” She did not react to his words. “He was one of the best men I have ever met,” he assured her, “and he was known as a good man even in Scotland Yard.”
“One of the best men . . .” Mrs Ogden began, and then nodded, possibly partially mollified, although Mendick suspected tears were not far from her eyes. “Let’s get you cleaned up.” She fetched a brown bowl from the dresser in the corner. “We can talk about Nathaniel later if you wish.”
“Of course.”
He moved to help but she waved him away impatiently. He stood impotent as she worked a pair of bellows to bring the fire back to life, piled on some coal and filled a pot with water from the outside well. He watched her bustling around, thankful that he was safe for the time being. He did not realise that he was sleeping until she woke him.
“Come on now, Mr Mendick. Let’s have your unmentionables off.” She indicated his trousers.
Although Mrs Ogden had washed and changed into a comfortable dress of patterned green flowers and tidied her hair, her eyes were shockingly blank as though she refused to acknowledge the truth of her loss.
“What?” Mendick looked up. “I can’t do that!”
“Don’t be silly; I have to clean you up, so your trousers must come off. Do you really think that the sight of your legs will shock me?” There was no humour in Mrs Ogden’s smile. “I’ve just lost my husband, and you’re just another man.”
The Darkest Walk of Crime Page 17